


A Stroke of Fate

by Tar_Ancalime



Category: The Lord of the Rings - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Aragorn has a crush, Aragorn is a little kinky, Aragorn/Boromir - Freeform, Arwen is awesome, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pining Aragorn, Story will span Gandalf's death but not Boromir's, a manly heroic angsty crush but still a total crush, all main characters have POV, as slow as you can do when you only know each other four months before one of you dies i guess, bookverse, rated explicit so far for only a few sentences and to keep my options open, sort of slow-burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-18
Updated: 2021-03-18
Packaged: 2021-03-27 05:27:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 6
Words: 7,280
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30117828
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tar_Ancalime/pseuds/Tar_Ancalime
Summary: Aragorn plays with fire and finds he can't control what he started. Nor, in truth, does he want to.
Relationships: Aragorn | Estel/Arwen Undómiel, Aragorn | Estel/Boromir (Son of Denethor II)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 11





	1. Aragorn

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: You know they aren't mine.

Truth be told, Aragorn felt himself being drawn to Boromir from the very first moment he laid his eyes upon him. He wrote it up almost immediately to the Man’s garb, cut in the style of Southern nobility, and to the tokens of Gondor displayed thereupon. Together, these marked Boromir as a person perhaps of special importance to Aragorn’s own quest, and one to take careful note of. But in all honesty, the first thing that drew Aragorn’s attention was an instinct much more basic than any such strategic consideration: The man simply pleased his eyes, and Aragorn was glad to look upon him. So he looked more closely, and quickly found better cause to keep looking, that allowed him to plausibly deny his other motives. 

Few of the many long words spoken at the Council were new to Aragorn, and so he devoted much of his attention to studying the audience while Glóin and Elrond spoke. When Elrond spoke of Gondor, painting it very much as a realm in demise, Aragorn’s gaze darted to Boromir, and found the Man visibly dismayed. He was unsurprised when Boromir rose and spoke unbidden, seeking to rectify what he no doubt deemed an insult to his land. Though Aragorn, having been raised by Elrond, knew the depth of experience and wisdom underlying the elf-lord’s appraisal of Gondor, Boromir could hardly know it, and Aragorn was sympathetic to the Man’s evident desire to defend his people. Their people. Indeed, Boromir’s well-spoken words filled Aragorn with a sense of love and pride for that people, and he recalled the proud banners of Gondor when he served as Thorongil in its army.

Boromir then spoke of the dream that had led him to Rivendell, and the riddle contained therein, and much more suddenly than Aragorn had expected he was forced to reveal himself to this man of Gondor, whom he now knew to be the Steward’s heir – perhaps his fiercest rival in all the world. Much hinged upon their meeting, and Aragorn, although he knew who he was and did not falter, felt Boromir’s surprised and then uncertain eyes upon him acutely. He felt his chest swell with wanting to prove himself to this gaze, and though he mastered himself quickly, he could not deny then or ever after that he cared what Boromir thought of him, and what he saw in him.

~

Aragorn was busy in the last weeks in Rivendell. He had much to plan and to consider with Gandalf, many farewells to say to people and to beloved places, many songs to sing and to hear in the great hall of Elrond, and most of all, oaths to renew to Arwen Undómiel.

He saw to it that Boromir was shown around Rivendell, that his travel-worn things were repaired as necessary, and he had everything he wished for. Yet he was careful not to seem too overbearing and as if Boromir could not handle his own in this strange land of elves where Aragorn belonged. As far as he could tell, the Man of Gondor spent most of his time by himself, studying the many displays and decorations, or walking for leisure in the woods and slopes inside Rivendell’s protective borders. He sat by himself at mealtimes, or by the dwarves, or was nowhere to be found at all, if he was not speaking with Aragorn; and though he came several times to the Hall of Fire to listen to the songs of the Elves, he tended to tire quickly of them and retreat to Aragorn knew not where.

The two Men spoke to each other often during those weeks, each one seeking out the other in almost strict alternation. Both of them were polite and courteous, and the formality of each meeting made Aragorn dread the next. Of course they spoke much of Aragorn’s life and his lineage; he disclosed his service for Gondor in years past, and all the long years of his life in the company of the elves and Rangers while in exile. Boromir listened to his tale, and received the heirlooms of Andúril and the ring of Barahir to examine, but he never told if these convinced him of Aragorn’s legitimacy, and Aragorn decided to leave the matter be for the moment. Instead he asked Boromir for news of the South, and made note of all he heard, matters great and small in the scope of the world. 

Aragorn promised that he would come to Minas Tirith with Boromir, to the judgment of Denethor and the people of Gondor. And in turn, Boromir agreed to enter the Fellowship of the Ring and escort Frodo as far as their roads ran side by side. The outcome of both journeys, of course, was perilously uncertain, and thus all their conversations were uneasy and of a sort of stiffness that looked out of place on them both. Aragorn sought out the other Man’s company only as often as he deemed necessary for courtesy, and fled into his other duties the rest of the time; but he never forgot Boromir’s uneasy presence in Rivendell, and never failed to notice the Man immediately in any place they met, nor to look for him in any place where they might.

One night, close to the outset of the Fellowship, Arwen asked him about Boromir, and Aragorn found he did not know the right things to say to her inquisitive silence. Somehow he felt reluctant to say anything at all, to expose the strangely nervous tangle of feelings in his chest, as if she might learn more from his words than he himself yet understood.

“I don’t know that I have ever looked on a man and known so surely that my fate would be tied up with his,” He said finally. Then he sighed. “I thought I had many weeks’ journey yet between me and Gondor, but she came to me here, and sent her finest for me to impress. It has already begun.” 

Arwen said nothing, only looked at him with clear brave eyes. Of course it was her fate, too, that was tied up with Boromir’s; their betrothal, and her very immortality, hung by a thread, and the weight of it all made the night air heavy to breathe. How Arwen could appear so calm and collected in the face of fate, Aragorn could only marvel at.

But Arwen kissed him then, and gifted him a long look from those deep eyes in which faith never seemed to falter, unfailing springs of courage and light. “You will win his heart,” She said simply, with all the confidence in the world in her melodious voice. “You will rise to your destiny.” And despite the graveness of her words, she smiled, and the sight as always lightened his heart.

They spent the rest of the night bidding farewell to each other, under the stars and the trees, and that night he did not think of any other.

~

But now, on the road, Aragorn finds himself thinking about Boromir a lot. There are times, of course, when the Fellowship and their way demand his full consciousness. But there are also many long hours and days where nothing happens save for the monotonous lifting of their feet and the songs of nature all around them, and each one of them has ample time to think, or brood, on what he may. And between his choices, Aragorn prefers thinking about Boromir, and how best to prove his leadership to the Man, to brooding about the doom to which they walk and for which there seems to be no hope of preparing. 

So he keeps a covert watch on the Gondorian, noting with the diligence of a scholar his behavior, and his talk, and learning what he can in this way about the current customs of Gondor, where he has not been for many years – and learning also what sort of man Boromir is, and how best to bring him to Aragorn’s side. 

He thinks over his observations during his long watches, of which he takes a greater share than most because he knows he can bear it. In the endless time between noon and sundown, he replays each look and gesture, and each undertone in Boromir’s voice, in his memory, and he finds this ritual strangely soothing. It gives him something to occupy himself with, something that is not threat and shadow, and yet pressing enough to ward off sleep. And if much of what he dwells on does not really have much to do with proving his leadership – if he perhaps spends more time contemplating the features of that fair face than the expressions on it, what harm is there in this? It keeps him awake all the same, and keeps the Fellowship safe in that way. And if he enjoys it a little too much, he simply doesn’t acknowledge that.


	2. Boromir

It does not escape Boromir’s attention, in the first days after they set out from Imladris, that Aragorn seems to keep an eye on him, because he is watching the aspiring king rather closely himself – as two rivals may, he supposes.

Boromir isn’t sure what the rightful heir of Isildur and Elendil should look like, or how else to tell if Aragorn is who he says he is, and if the tales he tells about his past and his lineage are indeed true. If Faramir were here, he might be able to determine with clever questions and tests the truth, but Boromir is not so learned as his brother in the ancient lore of Gondor, and so he is left to watch and wait for a sign one way or the other, or else for them to come to his City where his father will decide his course.

Of course, if Aragorn is the rightful heir to the throne, Boromir isn’t sure how to feel about that either. His whole life he’s been brought up to revere the kings of old, or rather their imposing statues and the history of their great deeds. And to look hopefully towards the return of the kings is part of the very fabric of Gondorian speech and spirit, which does not leave Boromir unaffected. He must admit that a fierce joy kindled in his heart at hearing that the heir was found, was walking a road that would lead him to Minas Tirith, and that he, Boromir, would go along with him. 

But on the other hand, Boromir has never really believed in the folk tales of the return of the kings to Minas Tirith. No more than that they seemed, tales to help men’s and women’s spirits endure through dark days and dark years. And indeed, he has long believed it was past time that the Stewards of Gondor be crowned kings, and the history of Gondor have a fresh start and a fresh glory. All his life he has considered his father as practically a king, and himself as practically a prince; in any case the labor and concerns, if not the full glory, of lordship has fallen to his family, and he always expected to rule the land after his father, if he should not fall in battle first. These seemed to be the only options for his fate. Now a third is arising, a future of service to a leader who is not his father, and Boromir would be lying to say that he does not bristle at this idea. Why should Gondor follow a man who only now, after such long years of life as he claims, reveals himself to her? Where has he been through the decades of Boromir’s own life, and even before?

But Aragorn is already gaining on him. Faramir perhaps would chastise his brother for the signs that seem to persuade him of so important a claim; but truly, the way Aragorn wields his mighty blade does a good deal to still Boromir’s initial reservations. It doesn’t hurt either that under his probing gaze, Aragorn is ever composed, confident and decisive, but ever caring also toward the little ones, of whom Boromir feels fiercely protective. He has a noble air about him like Faramir and like their father, but somehow higher and clearer, despite his lack of fair clothes and high halls. And when Boromir learns that Aragorn is betrothed to Arwen, daughter of Elrond of Imladris, that serves as another weighty proof to his mind, for surely one so mighty as Elrond would not give his daughter to an usurper – and surely a lady the likes of Arwen, whom Boromir saw in Imladris, would not give herself to such a man.

If Boromir is honest with himself, Aragorn does appear every bit like a king, and as the days pass, his resistance shrinks and becomes more of a dull dread of the day when Aragorn and Denethor must eventually meet. 

Through it all, to be sure, Boromir is attracted to Aragorn … wildly so. But he doesn’t make much of it. After all, Aragorn is a shining hero right out of anybody’s fantasy, and he looks the part, like whoever created him must have made him for men and women to lust after – and to follow. A compelling combination, Boromir thinks with a shiver. Who wouldn’t feel their blood warm at the way Aragorn smirks right before a bout of laughter; at the way he sheaths his sword; the way he stokes a fire, or looks straight and hard into the distance when he keeps watch, regal and immobile like a statue? No, such grace and strength is beyond Boromir’s ambition to resist. He knows himself to be a wanton, who always finds somebody to lust after wherever he goes – be it a trip to any city or encampment, be it a battle camp. His blood is easily excited by women and men alike, and it’s not something he’s ashamed of, the sort of weakness he would jest about over ale with friends or comrades. 

That it is Aragorn, son of Arathorn, to whom his eyes return time and time again since Imladris, is only inconvenient insofar as Boromir has no hope of consummating this desire, and as the journey wears on he finds himself increasingly frustrated. But this, too, is not a new problem, although under normal circumstances it would be easier for him to find relief elsewhere. With the ease of an often used skill, Boromir confines his pining to the back of his mind, where it seethes for most of their nights, coming to a boil only in the select situations when Aragorn looks particularly breathtaking.


	3. Aragorn

Perhaps things are getting a little bit out of hand. 

It is the early afternoon again, Aragorn is on watch again, and once again thinking of Boromir. But this time, his thoughts stray beyond all hope of justification, and he can’t even claim that it is by accident. Hoping to chase away the cold, and the tiredness in his limb, and the dread ahead on their road, he deliberately softened his defense, deliberately invited half-bred visions he kept in the shadows of his mind until now. And now he feels overrun with them. 

He feels hot all over, and oddly removed from this time and place, and the Quest, and the Doom. Inside his breeches he is as hard as the tree trunk he sits on, and chains of hot iron are churning in his stomach more insistently than he has felt them in a long time. But rather than dim down the desire with his usual self-control, he finds himself feeding it with more lewd images of Boromir naked, Boromir offering a goblet with seduction written in his eyes, Boromir in the throes of pleasure as he lies with strangers, thrusting himself between their legs, his thick muscles bulging, his face contracting as he looks right at Aragorn.

Aragorn’s breath and his heartbeat seem obscenely loud to him, and he feels absurdly transparent, as if all the Fellowship must surely notice what he has been thinking as soon as they wake up in the evening, as surely as if he were to relieve himself just here and now with Boromir’s name on his lips. He shivers, but still he does not stop, does not find the willpower to banish the thoughts and calm his mind and his body. 

He sits like that long past the end of his watch, unmoving, breathing shallowly, as if caught in a peculiar sort of meditation that he doesn’t wish to end.

~

From that afternoon on, Aragorn’s mind is changed. The power of it lingers in his gut, in his throat. When he looks on Boromir in the evening, and throughout their travels that night, something sings and aches within him, and when their eyes meet, he feels trapped and raw in his chest, vulnerable to that searching gaze.

He brought this on himself, he knows. He could have kept the images at bay, could have permitted nothing more than passing attractions to arise between them, meaningless and easily forgotten with the next turn of the way and the next task to do. Aragorn is not a slave to his emotions, rather he is used to supervising them like a company under his command. But this one, he willingly set free, willingly goaded on with the fervor of a long lonely watch, and now it has predictably ensnared him. 

Like a youth in the fangs of his first love, Aragorn finds his thoughts and his eyes now irresistibly drawn to Boromir. It’s more than only the desire of his flesh, although that too makes itself known with notable pangs in his loins. Boromir’s steady presence toward the end of their file, his long heavy strides and the gleam of his shield calm something in Aragorn that otherwise gnaws and itches at him, and drives him to seek the other Man’s company lest he be consumed. Walking beside Boromir in the back, he feels calmer and at once energized, and when he walks in front with Gandalf, as he did at first and as the way still requires often, he feels a distracting desire to return thither. 

So they spend much time walking together behind the others, quiet for the most part, Boromir huffing a good deal more than Aragorn on the climbs and making a good deal more noise with his boots. Still his speed and his determination never seem to change, a steady force unseen driving him onward no matter the terrain, or the weather, or his burden. Aragorn feels like he is breathing this steadiness, and it brings back to him the memory of his people, the proud and strong Men of Gondor and of Arnor, who are not like Elves or Dwarves or hobbits, but Men only, with Men’s virtues and weaknesses. Boromir is as much Man as any Aragorn has ever seen, and his presence seems to prepare Aragorn slowly for his destiny, as they walk towards his throne and his duty in Minas Tirith to which he must eventually come. Walking with him, Aragorn feels more like a Man himself than he has in a while, perhaps ever. Walking with him, Aragorn enjoys this version of himself.

And perhaps Boromir feels this change in him, because their interactions become easier, less tense. They become brothers in arms rather than strangers, and rather than rivals perhaps. Distrust and unease are gradually replaced with unquestioning reliance on each other, and when a strange noise catches their attention as they walk in the rear of the Fellowship, they stand back to back scanning their surroundings for foes like it’s the most natural thing.

Yet day by day, as he keeps watch or tries to sleep as much as possible in the short span of hours, the visions return to Aragorn, and the fire.


	4. Boromir & Aragorn

BOROMIR

Boromir must admit it’s becoming a little more difficult than expected to keep his eyes to himself. It’s clearly Aragorn’s own fault, though, for choosing to walk beside Boromir more often than not. The close proximity gives him many more opportunities to appreciate Aragorn’s handsome form and elegant movements, and in turn it becomes harder to ignore the desire building up inside him. 

He thought at first that Aragorn was keeping tabs on him out of suspicion, and withdrew into an icy silence for a while, but when Aragorn was nothing but friendly towards him, turning his back on Boromir with the greatest trust, the Gondorian relaxed and accepted this new familiarity. Aragorn, whatever else he may be, is an invaluable friend to have, and Boromir can think of no one better to walk with him. 

When he has just begun relaxing, their hands touch for the first time as Aragorn takes him over on the road, and after that, it happens more often. This is the last straw for Boromir’s self-control; he keeps imagining now that Aragorn is doing this on purpose, and is seeking his closeness on purpose not merely out of a sense of brotherhood, but in order to seduce him and bring him to his bed. The idea, vain and foolish though it is, makes Boromir’s blood boil and his cock grow so thick and heavy that he has to conceal it sometimes as they walk. It has really been too long, he thinks to himself; he must find a suitable time and place to retreat from the Fellowship, and be alone for a while.

He does so at the next opportunity, under the pretense of collecting wood for the fire. He doesn’t need long, doesn’t linger; only unties his breeches enough to get at his cock, ready to hide himself with his tunic at a moment’s notice should any hobbits come rustling through the undergrowth. His eyes are open, if perhaps a little glazed; clearly it wouldn’t do to be shot by an Orc with his breeches down just because he was careless. But behind the view of trees and bushes, he dreams of Aragorn, Aragorn’s hands on him and Aragorn’s hardness pushing into his thigh as he works, and Aragorn’s hair falling into Boromir’s eyes as the other man marks his in neck in his passion. 

~

ARAGORN

Sometimes they touch for a brief moment. The first time this happens, Aragorn is shocked to stillness, and for a good time afterward, the heaviness of the shadow and of his duty on his mind are drowned out by excitement, even something like joy. After that, he does it on purpose, no more often than once a day, and not every day. He waits for a moment to make it seem like an accident, brushing against Boromir as they make camp, as they work or walk, or he feigns indifference in familiarity, like when he grabs Boromir’s arm to still him so he can listen better to a noise in the bushes. But he feels brightened by it every time, replenished. It’s a childish game, and he surprises himself with it, but at least it gives him something good in his days, makes him feel something that is still potent and exciting and alive.

It’s at this point that he begins to feel truly troubled about this infatuation, which has clearly gone too far. He worries a little that it might complicate further his ambition to the throne when they reach Gondor. But chiefly, it seems unfaithful to Arwen, this celestial being who is bent on sacrificing everything for him. And that thought makes him sick to his stomach. He would never want to fail Arwen, or to hurt her, or do wrong by her.

Yes, Arwen also invigorates him; she is like a spring of light in his heart, and even distant as she is, a guiding star on his horizon. And yet he fears that he will never see her again, and thus the star loses some of its certainty, and he finds himself groping for something more immediate. 

But he remains deeply devoted to her, he loves her as he can’t imagine loving any other living soul, loves her like the sun and the water and the clear starry night. He would never have asked her to stay, or to give her immortality away, but he respects her choice and would never dream to reject her gift. Nothing could be sweeter than a lifetime with Arwen by his side. So how can he be having these thoughts about someone else?

Then again, having them about Arwen would be almost worse. She is so pure, so lovely, so composed, every inch of her starlight and silver, a gentle and compelling melody of magical strength. They have never laid together, and somehow he can hardly imagine it. When he thinks of it, he can only sense how it would feel – soul-shaking, earth-moving – to meet her in this way, but he can see nothing of flesh in his mind, only her eyes piercing his soul. Yes, this also he yearns for; in fact this union seems to stand on the horizon of his path like his true, unspoken destination, like the promise of salvation at the end of all his trials, not as a reward, for she could never be earned, but as the silent fate to which his whole life has always been driving him. This meeting of minds is his true destiny, he feels, and he is moved to tears sometimes when a dream falls on him about it.

But though they be, technically, about the same thing, those dreams have nothing of the fiery passion of his longing for Boromir. Arwen is not a being you can dream about fucking against a cold wall in the grime of a ruined watchtower by the wayside, or half-dressed and impatient like animals on the mossy ground of a wood, screaming their pleasure without restraint.

And … importantly … she is not a being you can imagine taking you. From their vague and distant mentions of the topic, Aragorn has gathered that while Arwen, should she become his wife, would take joy in giving him the pleasure he desires, she would never wield her own desire as a weapon, never wantonly command him to succumb to it, simply because she has no such desire. Morbidly fascinated, and despite considerable misgivings, he conjures up an image of Arwen pushing her naked, wet mound into his face and ordering him to lick her. He drops that image very quickly, so uncomfortable is it, and the twitch of his cock is far secondary to the compulsion to beg her forgiveness. No, this is not Arwen and never can be, and he can never ask such things of her, who does more than imaginable for him. 

Boromir on the other hand … Aragorn still feels guilty as he imagines instead Boromir pushing him onto the hard ground, pushing his cock into Aragorn’s mouth as he holds Aragorn’s head in both hands, but this image is so much more real. With a covert glance at the man walking in front of him, Aragorn has no doubt that Boromir would be exactly like this in pleasure, perhaps not with him, but with the women he lies with back in Minas Tirith, and knowing that this Boromir exists kills Aragorn with desire. 

Of course these visions can never be either, and he knows that. To live them with Boromir is no more realistic than with Arwen. Even if Boromir desired him also, of which there has been no indication, and even if he could betray Arwen, which he cannot, Aragorn could never let the other man take him like in these visions, no matter his body’s depravations. In fact, Boromir remains the one person in the world, save Sauron himself perhaps, and the old Denethor, to whom Aragorn must show nothing but his strength, or he will never ascend the throne, never save Middle Earth, and never gain Arwen’s hand. 

But that he must not do it does not make it any less imaginable, and the possibility of this, albeit unacceptable, choice is intoxicating. He has relinquished control of himself before to other Rangers, and other soldiers, ages ago when he was young and not yet betrothed to Arwen. It has been a lifetime since then, but the desire to repeat these experiences has never left him, and Boromir would be exactly the kind of man he would choose. And now that the likely end draws near not only of his life, but of all life and all joy, the allure of these fantasies is greatly increased, and his patience and self-control beginning to be undermined by despair and the reckless wish to live fully as long as he may.

So Aragorn understands his obsession. But that doesn’t excuse him. Ask any man in this world, he thinks, of any race, if one could ever be forgiven who marries an elven princess the likes of Arwen, when he has already in his heart betrayed her faith, and wishes more than anything to betray her in deeds also. They would all tell you to hang the fool. Aragorn has always known he is not deserving of Arwen, but to be even less so than he expected pains him greatly. And if not to return to Arwen in the end, what else is the purpose of all his hope and labor and courage?

Brooding on this, he becomes more distracted; in quiet moments, lustful thoughts of Boromir and shameful thoughts of Arwen now war in his mind.


	5. Arwen

From the moment Aragorn leaves Imladris, Arwen’s thoughts follow him faithfully. She knows that he walks now to his high destiny, which has always been his to fulfill, and she wishes him every bit of strength, and good luck, in the world – which he will doubtlessly need. She also knows that, although her life will be irrevocably impacted in many ways by the outcome of his quest, it remains his to carry, and she can only offer the gifts of a lover to help him. 

She is glad of the promise she gave to him, a light for him to hold high when despair seems thick enough to cut in the air. Now that he is on his way, she reaches out to him with all the strength granted to her by her learning and ancestry, and by their unique bond, to send him whatever aid she can: to soothe his dreams and quicken his recovery; to steady his heart and lend him her confidence when his grows thin. For Arwen is not afraid of his failing. She believes, perhaps more stoutly than any other save only Mithrandir, in the future, and in Aragorn.

With all her thoughts now resting on her lover, Arwen doesn’t miss for an hour the growing unhappiness in his heart. His thoughts are with her often, she knows, but their quality is unsavory, and this pains and confuses her. She tries to soothe him from afar, but his misery only seems to intensify, and pity moves her. 

Aragorn’s plight seems worst in the afternoons, and once while he keeps watch over his companions she is able to catch a glimpse of his thought. And then she knows what haunts him, and she wants to sing with relief, because he is not in any danger, and the enemy has not gained influence on his heart, nor any desire of power found his way into him: It is only harmless flesh he desires, and his trouble is only that he fears to do wrong by her. How strange Men can be, to suffer so much pain over such things now, in these days of mourning and fear!

She knows immediately who must be stirring these desires in Aragorn. She saw the way he looked at Boromir in Imladris, and though he did not want to admit it then even to himself, she guessed that it was more than politics that made Aragorn’s gaze linger. She did not mind it then, nor does she now. It’s no concern of hers who Aragorn lies with, so long as he is happy; her bond with him, she knows, could never be threatened.

She also thinks, as she remembers her brief impression of Boromir, that she understands his appeal to Aragorn, guessing what she has of her lover’s proclivities that he has never wanted to confess to her: Aragorn greatly desires something which he cannot take from her (this is how she thinks of it, without any bitterness: not as her inability to give, but his inability to receive from her), and here is someone who he believes might give him just what he desires. He is so young in some ways, Arwen thinks – a great, blazing heart and soul and noble spirit confined to such a short span of years. How dazzling, and how improbable. 

Thinking on it, Arwen finds it a brilliant stroke of fate to bring these two Men together on a long journey before they meet at the end of the road where their rivalry must come to a head – and to give them pressing cause along the way to overcome their adversity. Such are the ways of fate, she thinks with a bright smile.   
She doesn’t doubt for a moment that Boromir wants Aragorn too; she read it in his posture when they stood together in Imladris, and after all, Aragorn is Aragorn, and most of his race who are undeterred by his sex wouldn’t shun a chance to lie with him just for the gifts of his nature. 

But also, now that she thinks about it, perhaps Arwen read even more in Boromir: the Man seemed dangerous, both to Aragorn’s ambitions to become king and to the Ringbearer’s Quest, for he is rash and accustomed to power. But thinking back on how he looked at Aragorn after he learned of his lineage, Arwen thinks that perhaps there is some other desire in him, one resembling Aragorn’s in strange and beautiful symmetry: a desire to bend the knee to one who is worthy. Perhaps he would be glad to succumb to the true King of Gondor, if he could only be sure of his claim and his competence. And again, Arwen smiles as she considers the elegance of this crossing of paths: If Boromir indeed craves Aragorn’s body also, then this could be the way for Aragorn to reach this inner layer of the Man’s heart, the way through the defense of the warrior laden with responsibility.

That day, Arwen reaches out to Aragorn as he sleeps, to appear to him in a dream.

In the dream, they are again together in Imladris, standing close in the beautiful gardens by nightfall. Arwen asks Aragorn what trouble is on his mind. 

“I regret the weakness in my blood”, He sighs. “The weakness of Men.”

She asks him what he means by this, but he will not answer; he only looks at her with great distress. In the end, she tells him that she knows what troubles him, and not to despair of it. 

“Men have a history of disregarding the gifts of Ilúvatar”, She says. “Like mortality, that which you consider a vice and a weakness of Men may prove to be a power given to you for good, if you learn to trust yourself. What does your heart tell you?”

He averts his gaze and responds, “I don’t know; I cannot find it.”

She smiles then, and says, “Easily lost, it seems, are the hearts of Men. And that is fortunate! For many hearts high and noble must you win if you are to be king. Trust yourself, Estel. Even unlikely paths may lead you to your goal, and win you unlikely allies.”

Her power, smaller by daylight, leaves her then, so she bids him farewell with a feather-light kiss on his lips. 

~

The next time Aragorn sleeps, Arwen meets him again and finds nothing changed. The misery in Aragorn’s eyes has not diminished, and still he has not the heart to tell her the truth. They speak much the same words as the night before, and then she holds him close to her, allowing him to feel the cool calmness of her in his arms. 

“I love you, Estel,” She says to him. “And I know your heart. If you would only trust it like I do! There is nothing in this heart that could bring evil.”

“I would bring no evil unto you,” He murmurs into her hair. “Arwen. I would never hurt you.”

“This I know,” She responds, and departs with a smile and a kiss.

~

The next day, when Arwen reaches for Aragorn’s mind, she finds him waking, waking all through the long terrible day coming down from Caradhras, and for much of another night as the Fellowship awaits a danger she cannot see clearly. Seldom do her thoughts leave him that day and night, sending him all the strength she can give. But despite his danger, she feels he has not forgotten his guilt, though the desire is quelled for the moment by sheer exhaustion. The dreams of Men are fickle, she knows, and easily forgotten upon waking.


	6. Aragorn

The darkness of Moria is stifling. Blackness all around them, with no stars speaking to grace and higher purpose above, no breeze or song of nightbirds to enliven the quiet. It is a dead blackness and silence as Aragorn has seldom heard. They are all uncomfortable, save perhaps Gimli the dwarf. 

Aragorn walks behind Boromir, because his steps are surer in the darkness at the furthest point from Gandalf’s staff, but even he can barely see his hand before his eyes, and Boromir before him is no more than a shadow half-guessed.

Here, for the first time, Boromir’s resolve seems weakened; he mutters to himself, and his face when they take rest is grim and joyless. Aragorn understands, he too feels as if eyes watch them from the darkness, as if the mountain might cave in above them or the filthy air choke them in their sleep. He reaches a hand out in comfort to fall on Boromir’s shoulder, and gives him a long earnest look, but neither of them says a word. 

On Caradhras, at the very latest, as they barreled through walls of snow side by side and carried the hobbits down the icy slopes away from their certain death – at the insistence of Boromir, who knew defeat before Aragorn did – Aragorn felt the previously cautious bond between them harden and tighten into a brotherhood stronger than death. And now here, under the Earth, in this dreadful place neither of them ever wanted to come to, Aragorn is glad that they endure together.

They wind up unfolding their bedrolls next to each other that night, whether by intention or coincidence, Aragorn truly can’t say. But he is very glad for the audible breathing of Boromir beside him, rather than only the deafening silence of Moria. Foolishly, as he lies awake and cannot find rest, Aragorn wishes he could reach out and touch the warrior again, take comfort in his warm body and the life contained within. It isn’t even sex, this time, that he would have of him, though he would take that too; to his surprise, Aragorn, at his ripe age and on the way to fulfill his destiny, longs to be held.

“Boromir,” He whispers suddenly, desperately, “Are you awake?”

“I am,” Boromir answers to his right, barely audible. Then they lie in silence again, but Aragorn is not alone, and he is grateful.

He feels the burning need to speak, to confess his heart to the blackness, but he knows not what to say, or how. _I am afraid_ , he might say. _It would comfort me to feel you closer, if you would not be offended._ Or even, perhaps, _You’ve put a spell on me._

But he says nothing, only listens to Boromir’s breath, and finally slips into an exhausted sleep. 

~

In his dream, Arwen is with him, and they are surrounded by the peace and beauty of Rivendell. Aragorn can barely look her in the eye, guilt-ridden as he is, while she implores him to tell her what is on his mind. He tries to evade her, tries to talk about the Quest and his kingship and their marriage, but she won’t have it, and at last he kneels before her begging her forgiveness, for what consumes him is longing for another man.

But Arwen picks him up and sets him on his feet again, smiling brightly.

“It is good that you tell me,” She says. “But indeed you do me wrong – by imagining me to be a jealous maiden. I have known this yearning in your heart longer than you have, and if it hasn’t troubled me yet, why should it trouble me now?”

“But you don’t know,” He cries, “It isn’t only –“ What? He stops and does not know what it is that requires particular forgiveness. That it isn’t only lust? That it is lust? That it is about desires he hasn’t even told her about?

“I know,” Arwen says only, and he believes her at once.

Caressing his face, she says, “I think Boromir” – Aragorn flinches at the name on her lips – “feels much like you do. These are evil days. I don’t wish you to deny yourself and another what happiness you may still wring from this time, as if no greater problems were pressing in on us than your fidelity.” These last words she says with a bright smile, without a trace of mocking in them, only mirth and love. “You cannot fail me, Estel,” She says at last, with a piercing look out of her beloved winter eyes, and though he tries to hold on to her, she is lifted from him, but her blessing remains.

~

Aragorn awakens from the dream with tears in his eyes and the love he bears Arwen alive in every fiber of his body. As he lies staring up into the darkness, he begins to remember that he has dreamed this dream before, though it became buried under the perils and Burdens of the Fellowship in the first blinking moments after waking. And being brought up in the Elvish ways, he knows with certainty that this dream is not like the meaningless clutter of images entertained by mortal minds in their sleep. Whether it shows him only what he already knew in his heart, or whether Arwen herself has found a way to reach out to him as he slept – the thought swells his chest with love, and he considers it entirely possible given their bond – it appears that he has been tormenting himself needlessly. Once again, Arwen surpasses all his expectations, and leaves him standing in awe of her. Overcome with gratitude, he raises his own hands to his lips and kisses them, all his thought directed to her.

He can hear Gandalf muttering quietly to himself by the door, a strangely comforting sound that speaks of safety despite their dreadful surroundings. Aragorn rolls onto his left side, uselessly facing Boromir although it is impossible to see the faintest trace of him in the absolute darkness about them. Again he yearns to reach out, yearns to wake the man and kiss him and share with him the unfathomable grace of Arwen Evenstar. But the yearning now doesn’t feel so pained. It feels like the beginning of something that may yet grow, and Aragorn can wait.

He falls asleep again like that, facing Boromir, an unseen smile on his lips and his hands resting peacefully between their bodies, not quite reaching, but perhaps beginning to bridge the gap.


End file.
